Deadly Curiosities by Gail Z. Martin

before she handed the biscuit to him.
    “How are things at the store?” Mrs. Morrissey asked. She had been a good friend to my late uncle, and even now, she occasionally stopped in when the mood struck. I enjoyed our conversations, because she moved in the rarified air of Charleston’s old elite and usually knew everything about everyone.
    I sighed. “There’ve been a few problems lately,” I said, as Baxter crunched his biscuit. “A couple of customers made purchases and then had second thoughts.”
    “I see.” She gave me an inquiring look. “By the way, how are you doing? I heard you weren’t feeling well.”
    I felt my face flush red. “I think I’ve been skimping a little too much on lunch lately.”
    Mrs. Morrissey nodded, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “Of course, dear. Your Uncle Evan had spells of that, too, on occasion.”
    I fought the urge to do a double-take, mostly at her use of the word ‘spells’. Could Mrs. Benjamin Taylor Morrissey, doyenne of South of Broad, have an inkling about what really goes on at Trifles and Folly? She looked amused as I recovered.
    “Maybe it runs in the family,” I replied. “I need to remember – less coffee, more food.”
    She smiled. Unlike so many older ladies of her social standing, Mrs. Morrissey had not removed all evidence of a life well lived with Botox and cosmetic surgery. Her skin crinkled around her bright blue eyes, and the fine lines around her lips hinted that perhaps in younger days she had been a smoker. It made her look real, and I respected her for her courage. “You haven’t been down to the Historical Archive for a while,” Mrs. Morrissey said, her tone gently reproving. She gave me a sly smile. “We could have told you about Trinket’s ancestor and the Iroquois Theater fire.”
    I stared at her, open mouthed. “You know?”
    Mrs. Morrissey chuckled. “Historians are the worst gossips, my dear. We gossip about the dead as much as we do the living. And, as they say, we know where all the bodies are buried.”
    Her grin was positively impish. “Trinket had been down to see us not long before she sold the glasses to you. She wanted to validate a family story about her great-grandmother and a rather miraculous escape from a very famous theater fire, which was quite the scoop for the papers down here at the time, even if it did happen up North.”
    Teag had Weaver magic, but I had my sources, and one of them was Mrs. Morrissey. She was one of a dozen older women whose blood was a blue as the rinse in their hair, and who spent their many volunteer hours serving as the keepers of Charleston’s long and sometimes salacious history. They could be the icy guardians of propriety, but if they liked a researcher, they could point the way to old and juicy scandals.
    “I imagine she was horrified,” I replied. “I’ve read a little about the fire online. It was awful.”
    Mrs. Morrissey nodded. “I’ve known Trinket for years, and she seemed genuinely distraught,” she said.
    “It’s no wonder she wanted to be rid of the glasses once she knew the story. I imagine it haunted her dreams.”
    “I’m sure that made it impossible for her to enjoy using them, once she knew about it,” I agreed.
    Mrs. Morrissey adjusted her necklace. “Ah well, so long as you and Trinket are both well, that’s what counts.” She narrowed her eyes. “Aren’t you getting your floors redone soon?”
    I nodded. “The work starts tomorrow. Baxter is going to the dog spa, and I’m going to stay at Gardenia Landing.”
    “I imagine you’ve heard about the ghosts?”
    Did everyone know? “I didn’t know Gardenia Landing was haunted,” I said, hoping I could feign surprise.
    “Hmmph,” Mrs. Morrissey said. “I’d be more surprised if it weren’t. What with all that’s happened there.” I raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
    Mrs. Morrissey nodded. “For all their wealth, the Harrison family had more than their share of tragedy. Several children died